Another woman paraded naked,
another assaulted by a mob,
so horrific so regular so routine,
the smell of coffee six across-
the promise of a good life-a utopia
though none may salve the wound
the way she reacts and cry
does it fit violence? – four across-
they peel her tongue in an effortless ease
then strip one of her sisters
they want more and more of it
siphoning the light- eight down-
no one knows who is to blame
sarcasm in different lips disperses around
a chill descends, motionless, paused
judgment time- nine down-
they come with terror and destruction
bodies slither into pieces
the arc of growing up- eight across
a blank is left- armchair is the best fit-
